


Five Hundred Miles (Away from You)

by Opal_Edge



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blind Character, Blindness, Blood and Violence, Crowley needs a hug, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Sorry, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), It's cheesy I'm sorry, M/M, Revolutionary War, universe alternations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:26:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23107699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opal_Edge/pseuds/Opal_Edge
Summary: The year is 1776, and everything has gone horribly wrong. Crowley had failed missions before, but never with such consequences. Depowered and stranded far away from England, he'll have to survive angels, the war, and worst of all life without Aziraphale. He's been surprised by human cruelty before; could he survive them when he's so dangerously close to mortal?
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 69
Collections: My favorite AU fics





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hi welcome to whatever the heck I've written here. This is the first chapter; I'm not sure how many chapters it'll have in total, but I don't think it's going to be very long. I don't write much fan fiction. Shout out to @IneffableToreshi for bullying me into posting this!

The demon slammed into the floor, cracking his head as he did. Stars burst across his vision, and he frowned. “Ow,” he said, mildly.  
The other demon glared down at him. “It was a simple job,” they snapped. “It shouldn’t have taken you longer than a year tops!”  
Crowley pushed himself to his knees. “Isn’t thisss better though? They’ll fight each other- kill each other- lots of soulsss for Hell.” He worked his jaw, purple with bruises.  
Beezelbub kicked at him again, growling. Crowley flattened himself against the ground. “You nitwit!” They buzzed. “These humans were supposed to tear themselves apart, but they still have their leader; there will be no chaos!” They aimed another kick. “No glorious victory for our Lord!”  
Crowley opened his mouth, and closed it again. Anything he said would just incense the demon further. Better to stay silent.  
Beezelbub rubbed their temples. They sighed, then looked down at him with rage boiling in their eyes. “Get him out of my sight.” They waved a hand at the demons flanking Crowley, who dragged him roughly to his feet, twisting his hands behind his back.  
The demons dumped him where they’d found him, in Massachusetts. One of the thirteen colonies of the British Empire. As a parting gift they pushed him into a pig sty.  
He lay dazed for a few moments, the mud seeping into his clothes. Then he struggled to his feet. “Fuck.” He gagged, and spat out a stream of mud. Everything hurt, including his wings, which registered as faint throbbing at his shoulder blades. He rolled up his shirt, and winced. There was already a sharp black bruise where the Demon Prince had kicked him between the ribs, scattered amongst other marks of varying shapes and sizes. Crowley glared at the bruises and snapped his fingers. They remained as purple as ever. He snapped again, harder. Nothing.  
“Bugger!” Clutching the sty’s wall, he limped away, towards an alley. If he lay low for a few days, his power would return. Then he could go home. Thunder crackled in his ears, and he curled against the alleyway as the first drops of rain splattered down on him. The feather-light touch of a memory stirred; in his mind's eye a white wing flashed overhead. His all-too-human heart clenched. He rubbed the locket that rested on his chest, just above the heart. The angel had commissioned it specially. At the time Crowley had complained about how bloody sentimental it was, and wouldn’t people get the wrong idea, angel? He wore it every time he went on a mission. Two snowy white feathers were cradled inside.  
Leaning with his head against the wall, he let the water seep into his eyes, obscuring the drops as they fell. And Fell. He rubbed the locket again, tracing the serpent pattern on its surface. One breath, then another. The tension eased, though he still throbbed. Blinking, he glared up at the sky as the rain came down, thicker and faster. “You couldn’t just tone it down a bit?” he growled. His hair, sopping, had plastered itself to his face, ginger strands streaking against his neck.  
It was a miserable night, but the next day was worse. The next day people were out on the streets, and soldiers. He couldn’t let them see him. They’d think he was a beggar or worse; he didn’t want to deal with that. He had whatever was left of his pride after all. Scrambling from street corner to street corner, he found some old huts, breaking down with rot and rain but with enough of a roof to keep him dry. Sighing, Crowley eased himself inside. The bruises on his ribs didn’t quite hurt like hell (he had personal experience; hell was much worse), but they certainly weren’t what he’d asked for. He tried miracling them away again. Like before nothing happened. Crowley clenched his teeth, and punched the hut, knocking a hole in the side and giving himself a bloody fist.  
“Shite!” he gasped, cradling his hand. Idiot idiot idiot, he thought. You can’t heal like normal right now remember? Whatever he did to himself, he’d have to get better the human way. Which meant binding his ribs and whatever else needed bandaging. With his teeth, he tore some strips from his shirt, wincing as the silky fabric split. It was an expensive shirt. Beezelbub owed him, damnit. He wrapped the fabric around his ribs and hand with a pang of regret.  
Through the cracks in the ceiling he watched the stars appear and disappear two times, the bruises fading from lurid purple black to yellow. On the second day he woke to a strange feeling in his stomach, a hollowness he’d never felt before. He raised his brow as it rumbled like thunder. “Wot’s this?” He mumbled. Hunger? What was he, human? A chill swept through him, and he felt for his wings. There was an answering ache. Still there, just trapped on a different plane. Good. He still had to think about food though. He’d never much concerned himself with food before; that was more Aziraphale’s department. He’d nibble sociably when Zira asked him to a restaurant, but it all tasted like ashes to him. Maybe because of his demonic nature. But now….  
Crowley pulled himself up, his head spinning when he took a step forward. His aches had dulled enough that it wasn’t too painful to leave the hut and walk toward the square. He made sure his glasses were firm on his nose before he entered. The chatter of voices was like a raucous hum, people buying and selling, women pulling children by the hand, slaves with baskets on their backs. Crowley walked with his head down, sniffing the air. He caught a whiff of bread and swung toward it, almost hurrying in his haste. He knocked against someone’s shoulder; they called after him but he slipped away. “Not sorry.”  
The little bakery teamed with a dizzying amount of smells, so strong they nearly knocked Crowley over. He licked his lips, eyeing the bread. “This for sale?” He asked.  
The baker nodded. “Aye.”  
Crowley grabbed the nearest loaf, miracling some coins in his pocket. His hand scraped the bottom of the pocket. His eyes widened. “Damn,” he cursed. Clutching the bread, he dived past the baker, ignoring the baker’s shouts. He ran as fast as his weak legs could carry him, listening for the clanking of red coats. When his legs shook so bad he couldn’t go on, Crowley slid to his knees in an alley, holding his breath. Silence was all that greeted him, the most comforting sound he’d ever heard. He let himself exhale. Eyeing the bread, he ripped a corner off and stuffed it in his mouth, chewing. The taste of ashes filled his mouth, but he felt his stomach unclench a little as the food slid down his throat. He ate the loaf in three bites. When it was gone, he dragged himself back to the hut and lay down, staring up at the sky. The sun nosed through the broken wood onto his face. Hissing, he turned onto his side, blinking away the light from his eyes. Too bright. Slit-pupiled eyes, even behind a pair of dark glasses, were sensitive. If he had to stay in darkness for the rest of his days, it wouldn’t be too bad. He could sleep in darkness after all, and he enjoyed sleeping. But if he never saw the angel again...or the stars…  
Crowley made himself look at the sun, at the reminder that he was still here. Far away but alive. “What do I do now?” he wondered. Without his powers or his wings, he was stuck here in the colonies. Maybe he could take passage on a ship? But he didn’t have any money. He could stow away; he didn’t have his snake form, but humans managed it all the time. Couldn’t be that hard. If he was discorporated though, what would happen? Would he be returned to Hell? Would it be more permanent? Without his abilities he was as helpless as a child. “I’ll stay here then, at least until I can find a ship home.” He wasn’t sure who he was saying the words too.  
Time passed slowly. He stayed in the hut until it fell down with him inside, trapping him for a day beneath the splintered wood. After that he stuck to the alleys, keeping to himself and avoiding the soldiers or townsfolk who might pass by. His shirt changed from white to gray to rags, his breeches the same. He let a layer of dirt settle over his hair; red was too distinct, and he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. He still refused to beg. If he was hungry he stole, though he wasn’t hungry often. Eating hadn’t gotten any easier. He was so thin his skin was nearly translucent, and he could see every vein his corporation had. When he caught his reflection in puddles, he couldn’t recognize himself.  
At first he’d tried to keep track of the days, but he moved around too much to keep a tally. So he wasn’t sure how long it’d been when it happened. Market day in the square was the best time for him. He could blend with the shadows, grab something when no one watched then disappear again. On this market day there’d been more soldiers than usual, and rumblings about the rebels. Good or ill, he couldn’t say. Lost In the crowd, he picked a fruit from a stall and began to flit away. Instead he bumped against a chest.  
“Sorry,” he said, eyes on the ground, and twisted past the man. A hand shot out, grabbing his wrist so hard he had to bite back a yelp. Then he was shoved back, and he fell to the ground, the apple rolling out from under him. Stunned, he looked at the man standing over him with a scowl.  
“You stole this?” the man asked.  
Another man came up behind him. “Look at ‘im, he doesn’t look like he could afford the dirt on his feet.” He turned his head and spat.  
The first man frowned. “Shut up Abe. What he is, is starving.”  
He reached for the apple, and Crowley felt himself protest, a weak sound; all the man did was hand it to him. “Hard times, eh?” he said.  
Crowley didn’t answer.  
“I’m Nathaniel, and this meathead here is Abraham. What’s your name?”  
Crolwey still didn’t say anything. He had a suspicion who these men were; if he didn’t speak, they might get tired and leave him alone.  
Nathaniel eyed him. “I’ll be frank. We’re revolutionaries, Washington’s men. Well, not Washington’s men directly,” he amended. “But we fight for liberty. We can’t offer much, but you look like you could use some food and a roof over your head, and we have that. What do you say? Join us?”  
Abraham grunted. “It’s either join or we leave you to the Redcoats, your choice.”  
He felt a swirl of panic. He couldn’t fight their war! He was Crowley, a demon! He was supposed to lead humans astray, not fight with them. Not for their cause. He struggled internally for a few moments before sagging, sighing out a word. “Alright.” It scraped his throat, and he coughed, curling in on himself. A strong hand was suddenly under him, pulling him to his feet. Crowley swayed.  
“What’s your name?” Nathaniel asked again, his voice gentle.  
Crowley glared at him, with about as much venom as a mouse. He looked away. “Crowley,” he relented.  
Nathaniel’s face split into a grin. “Welcome to the revolution, Crowley.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going to try adding more spaces between the paragraphs.

The revolutionaries weren’t the cleanest bunch, but they at least had clothes and weapons, and looked like they’d been fed recently. Crowley shifted. He felt very dirty in his tattered pants and shirt, barefoot, his pale face smudged by his fall in the dust. Nathaniel patted his arm; it took a lot for Crowley not to flinch away. He hadn’t been touched in...in...he wasn’t sure how long. 

“Look what ‘Thaniel brought in,” one solider said. “A gutter rat.”

“We’re down to beggars now for recruits I guess,” another replied, laughing. 

Nathaniel glared at the men, and pushed Crowley into a tent. Inside there was some linen, wash cloths, clothes. “Take whatever you like. There should be a tub somewhere; I’ll find it for you. You need a bath, my friend.”

Crowley chuckled ruefully. “I can’t deny that.” He scratched at his neck, then fiddled with the locket. 

The big man had eyes like a hawk. “Got a lover in there?” he asked, looking at the locket. 

Crowley sighed. “Something like that.” He mumbled the words, quick enough Nathaniel wouldn’t understand. 

The man shrugged. “I’ll be right back.”

Crowley picked a pale green tunic and brown trousers. He’d be provided with boots at some point, he hoped. Without scales to toughen his soles, his feet were raw and calloused. Aziraphale would’ve clucked like a hen. Actually, at the sight of him the angel may have cried. Too big-hearted for his own good, that one. Crowley felt a twinge, and an ache. Like he’d bruised his own heart. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. He blinked them away angrily. Demons didn’t cry; demons didn’t feel love. They didn’t carry pain so strong the thought of it made them so heavy they wanted to curl up and sleep and never stand ever again. Nathaniel found him on the floor besides his clothes, arms wrapped around his stomach and his head tucked tight to his chest.

“Crowley?”

Crowley jerked out of the position, unconsciously snake-like. “Sorry, sorry. Too many thoughts,” he said, rubbing his temples.

Nathaniel led him to the tub, standing guard while he stripped and washed. The water was so cold it burned him, and by the time he cleaned the dirt from his skin and hair he was shaking. Crowley cursed his circumstances again for the third time in as many minutes. Human in all other ways, he was still cold-blooded. They really wanted me to suffer, he thought. Why just be powerless when you could also be miserable? He groaned. The punishment for his failure hadn’t been cutting him off from his powers. It was much worse than that. He was to serve in the very army of the man he’d been sent to kill. What punishment was more fitting than dying on some battlefield far from home, with the prospect of either permanent discorporation, or the true wrath of Hell if he managed to avoid the first. He wasn’t sure which would be worse.

It doesn’t matter anymore. What does matter are the clothes I’m putting on now, and the food I’ll be eating soon. He couldn’t think about more than that, shouldn’t. He’d always been the kind to look at the big picture; his temptations had been small, but they led to bigger ones that humans did themselves. He’d meant to do the same here. Set a trap, then let the humans walk into it and do the rest of the work. Though Crowley had never been much for murder. His heart wasn’t in it; that was his excuse for how easily Heaven had thwarted him. They hadn’t sent Zira against him. He had to thank Heaven for that at least; he couldn’t have dealt with the angel’s disappointment. Crowley had given Aziraphale no reason to think him a good person, but the angel did anyway, and the thought of the stricken disgust that would’ve filled his eyes at Crowley’s actions nearly broke him now.

The angels had caught him in his own trap, beat him, stripped away his powers, and tossed him out again. And Washington’s heart beat on. 

“I might be the lousiest assassin ever to walk,” he chuckled to himself. He’d be a worst soldier. And yet here he was. He sat at Nathaniel’s cookfire that night, ate what he was given and tried not to throw it back up, and didn’t let his thoughts drift past the orange flames. He had to share a tent with two soldiers, but for Crowley it was enough to have something overhead for once, though sleep wouldn’t come to him. That was one thing he’d never had lack of on the streets. Sometimes he’d sleep the whole day away, and wake to some woman beating at him with a broom, screaming for him to get off her stoop. Usually he’d reply with a jab at her clothes or husband, unless he was too drunk to think straight. He frowned. Maybe that’s what he needed right now.

He eased out of the tent, walking back to the campfires, empty now except for ashes. “Must have something somewhere, even these bleaters have to to get drunk once in a while,” he muttered, rummaging through the grass. A hand closed on something cool like glass, and he yanked it free in triumph. “Rum!” Unstopping the bottle, he gulped down the contents, wiping his mouth on his sleeve when he was done. They found him laid out on the grass in the morning, shivering and mumbling. 

Abraham sloshed a bucket of water on his head to wake him. 

“What-” Crowley sprang to his feet and shivered harder, teeth chattering. “What the hell was that for?” 

Abraham turned to the man beside him. “He’s a drunk, look at him. And he has evil eyes.”

Crowley touched his face, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the cold. He touched glass. Exhaling, he scowled at Abraham. “I’m not a drunk. I don’t have evil eyes either.”

Abraham grinned. “If you don’t have the devil’s eyes then why do you hide them? Take those things off, I want to see for myself.”

“If you must know, I’m sensitive to light,” Crowley spat. “Wanker.” 

Abe didn’t like that. He made a grab for the glasses, but Crowley was faster, and spun aside then away.

“Lout, oaf, bugger-all wanker,” he chanted, grinning at the fury on the bigger man’s face. Frustration rolled off Abraham in waves, and Crowley basked in it. He almost felt like himself again. Abraham stopped chasing him once he ran up a tree, perching on a thick branch and cackling like his namesake. He knew he’d regret it later, and he did; the corporal's first official action in regards to him was to strip his shirt and give him five lashings. It was worth it. After that they gave him a gun and bayonet. They taught him how to load and cock it, where to aim. 

He marched with the gun heavy on his back and pair of second-hand boots that felt better than the finest leather. A hat perched at a jaunty angle on his head. He’d stuck two feathers, black, through the pin. The locket seemed lighter somehow. Lighter, but heavier. He brushed it, beneath an overcoat (threadbare, though anything that wasn’t rags was like hearty cotton to him).

“I’ll come back someday,” he vowed. “Just...not yet.” I’m sorry angel.


	3. Chapter 3

Every step they took sent him further from home. Though he didn’t really have a “home” did he? Just a place he stayed in, to rest from the road. But no; the road was here under his feet, in dirt and cobblestones. He squinted at the dusty stones that seemed to stretch on for miles. Something smacked his arm, and he felt himself fall forward. “Hey!” he growled, scowling at the men around him. 

“Keep moving, soldier,” the corporal said. He made as if to knock Crowley with the butt of his gun, which Crowley skipped around, hurrying forward. 

“Damn human.” He twisted to glare at the corporal, who wasn’t watching him anymore, and imagined the things he’d have done to the man. If he could. It got harder every day to remember what exactly it was like to be a demon. He didn’t feel much like a demon, though he knew he was as vulnerable to things like holy water as he’d been before. And he’d never enjoy the taste of food, whether he needed it or not. He shook away the thoughts. The vague discomfort he felt when the men prayed was something he could live with. He prayed as well, though not to Her. Aziraphale, he thought now. His tired feet trampled the road, but he couldn’t feel it. A glow spread through him, soothing his aching bones. He clutched the locket again. 

Nathaniel marched behind him, out of sight. Abraham was further away, at the end of the line of soldiers. None of the men nearby wanted to talk, which suited Crowley fine. He didn’t want to talk to them; he doubted they had anything interesting to say, and it’d been a while since the last stop, so they were mostly irritable like the corporal. That man always seemed irritable though. He hummed to entertain himself; off-key, also to entertain himself. A soldier stifled a groan, and Crowley grinned. He almost turned to give a sardonic bow, but the corporal would’ve hit him again if he did.

The shout of “Redcoats” didn’t register right away, not until a hand yanked him down beside a bush. 

“Redcoats,” Nathaniel said. “Do you know what to do?” He loaded his musket, cocking and priming it. Then he poured powder down its neck, inserting the lead ball and pushing wadding into the barrel. He pulled something off the gun, using it to push the ball and wadding further down the barrel; he finished cocking it, aimed, fired. 

Crowley jumped, fumbling with his own gun. There were too many steps, and his thoughts flew from him like panicked birds. “Ssshite!” He cut a finger on something, the blood dripping to the ground. The shouts sounded louder, muskets went off around him, ringing in his ears. A musket ball flew past his ear. Cursing, Crowley dodged behind the bush again, still fumbling. He managed to load a cartridge and some powder. When he finished, raising the gun up, it shook. The musket felt heavy in his hands, unnatural. He’d never had to use a gun before, wasn’t sure he liked the thought of killing people with it. Crowley fired, the ball skittering off to the side instead of the line of scarlet soldiers. He almost felt relieved. Another ball whistled by and the feeling dissipated. 

“Having trouble with Brown Bess there?” a voice chuckled. Abraham was suddenly at his side, smiling at him. A moment and Crowley was sprawled on the ground with a mouthful of mud. “You look like a half-drowned snake,” Abraham told him, striding away. Crowley laughed, mireless. The bastard wasn’t wrong.

By the time he got free of the mud the battle was over, and they marched off as though nothing had happened, leaving their dead behind. Crowley stared at the bodies. He’d seen bodies before, but he’d never been involved, not directly. A flock of birds settled, squawking. Swallowing, he looked away. He tasted mud. 

It went that way most of the time. Marching, interspersed with skirmishes, sometimes bigger battles, though he took care to spend those out of sight. He was a terrible soldier; he’d never doubted that. You couldn’t fight like a snake in war. You had to have blind obedience and courage, and he didn't have much of either. He had his own skin to think about. 

It was tolerable. Not easily tolerable; he couldn’t get used to the deaths, to how messy war was. They skipped around for a few years. He learned how to hunt (they used the muskets for that too), and how to skin a rabbit (the smell alone should have killed him). Working a knife through the rabbit’s hair, paring off bits and pieces until the hair and skin lay in a pile beside him, leaving the flesh to glisten revoltingly in the fire light. Placing it on a spit over the fire, turning it now and then, the smoky smell filling his nostrils as the rabbit turned from pink to golden-brown. Then once it was cooked, chopping it into bits and throwing it into the stew. The others left him alone to tend to the rabbit; they told him he got a look while he prepared it, like he was deep in thought. It unsettled them. He didn’t mind that.   
“That’s your daughter?” The soldiers huddled around the fire leaned in close, staring at the portrait in Emory’s -a private- hands. 

The man smiled. “Yes. mind you, she’s a bit older now. Just turned three I think- I joined when she was a babe, haven’t seen her in two years now.” He had a far away wistful look on his face; despite himself Crowley leaned over to have a look at the portrait. It showed a baby, all swaddled in frilly white cloth, with solemn brown eyes that stared at the painter as it sucked it’s thumb. Fuzzy blonde hair covered it’s head. Crowley could imagine her mother, out of sight behind the painter, maybe cooing, holding up the child’s favorite toy as a silent promise. He smiled.

“That’s a fine kid you’ve got there,” he said to Emory. “She’ll want to be just like her da when she grows up, I’m sure.”

Emory looked startled. “Well- um- not exactly like me I hope. The miller had a baby boy a few years back; nothing would make me happier then to see the two of them wed. A long long time from now.”

Crowley held back a snort. Humans and their concept of “gender” was something he’d never understand. That, and how they were so very creative, inventive; yet at the same time so set in their ways, the ways of the past. If he was human, he’d look forward and never look back. They’d have to catch him before he’d slow down. “Ah,” he said, turning away. He felt the tension fall from Emory the moment his back was turned. The man laughed at something another soldier said, and they all chuckled until tears filled their eyes. Crowley stirred his stew for the hundredth time, in the shadows out of sight of the fire. 

Later in the bushes when he retched up the rabbit, he could still see the baby’s eyes. They were dark and full like the new moon, beautiful more for the pure innocence they held than anything else. More stew tickled the back of his throat, and Crowley braced himself against the ground, throwing up until his stomach was empty. Groaning, he curled in the dirt a few inches away, wracked with pain. He wouldn't sleep in the tents this night. “I hate eating,” he whimpered. Crowley glared at the sky, where the stars twinkled, taunting him. They were free and he wasn’t. They could fly and he could not.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to apologize in advance. Thank you, and I'm very sorry.

“I don’t see why we have to be the rearguard,” Isaac, a soldier all of eighteen, complained. 

Nathaniel glowered at the boy. He had more gray hairs now, probably from dealing with glory-hungry youths like Isaac, but otherwise he was unchanged. He still tried to encourage Crowley to interact with the men. “We’re the rearguard because our general decided we are, boy.”

Crowley glanced back at them, arching a brow. “The rearguard isn't the safest place, but I’d much rather be here than on the front lines.”

Isaac gaped at him. “But we’ll miss the fighting!”

“Fat chance of that,” Crowley said, laughing. He doubted they could avoid it. He’d tried to desert three times by now, once every year. He was lucky he’d only been whipped. The continental army needed every man it had, even the cowards.

“Crowley has a point,” Nathaniel told the boy. “It’s dangerous wherever we are, but you’re less likely to be killed back here.”

“Did you join to die?” Crowley asked Isaac, who scowled at him.

“If I die fighting for freedom I’ll be glad,” he said sourly. “You don’t want to fight for anything.”

Crowley grinned at him. The boy had a point. 

“Halt!” snapped a voice. “Ready your weapons.”

They didn’t need to be told twice. By now even Crowley could prime and load a musket; he might have been able to do it in his sleep. He squinted ahead. The outpost didn’t look like much, just a pile of logs stacked in a circle, with guns poking out of them. A British flag perched atop the logs. More logs lay on the ground, sharpened into points and facing outward. 

“So, that’s Stono Ferry. I hope we don’t get any closer than this.” For a long time they didn’t; not any closer than the abatis, where Crowley could duck beneath logs and aim from relative safety behind them. Men screamed around him, the sound of guns and the smell of blood filling his ears, his nose. He loaded and fired, loaded and fired again. His hands didn’t shake anymore. His heart still did. 

He didn’t realize he was in the thick of the battle until he stepped in a pool of blood, bodies strewn in a ditch. The bile rose in his throat; Crowley forced it back down- however much he hated it he had a job to do. He started to turn back, but something about one of the bodies was familiar. Every instinct in him screamed to get away. Instead he looked closer. Sightless eyes stared at him from a blood-spattered head; the body wore a continental uniform and Nathaniel’s face. No. Not him; he’s one of the good ones. Please. Crowley didn’t know who he was talking to, but he was feeling something he’d only felt for one being. An ache, deep in the pit of his stomach, and a sense of loss. Of grief?

Crowley swallowed. He brushed a hand over Nathaniel’s eyes, shutting them. “Sleep well. I hope they treat you better than they treated me,” he whispered. His hands tightened on the gun. For Nathaniel. He plunged into the battle with a cry, his bayonet flashing in the sun. He almost felt bold, like a warrior. It was a giddy feeling. Later he’d curse himself for getting too close to the cannon. In the moment, he didn’t see it until it was right in front of him. There was a white flash, so bright it knocked him over. Then the shrapnel dug into his face. For a few minutes he lay on the ground, the pain like fire writhing over him. He tried to scrabble up, slipped on the blood and fell back down. Blood ran down his face, blinding him. There were shards in his skin, shards in his hair. 

“Aziraphale!” he cried. A tidal wave of black crashed over him, snuffing out the pain as he fell into its embrace.

When he woke all he felt was a pounding in his temples; as he lay there, wherever there was, tingling started in his hands and feet. He stirred and managed to wiggle his limbs. Thank somebody the cannon hadn’t blown his legs off. He tried to sit up and felt restraints holding him down, then pain that stabbed at his eyes. “Ngk,” he managed. Something hot coursed down his cheeks, spattering onto his clothes. There was a thick bandage over his face. He couldn’t see a thing.

The sounds of wounded men were all around him, and something else right above him. Whispers. 

“Wazz happened to me?” he asked, slurring the words around a heavy tongue.

“That thing is a monster,” one voice said. “A changeling sent to work vile deeds. We should kill it, before it kills us.”

“I understand your concerns, but hell-spawn or not, this creature looks like a man and feels pain like one. I need to keep it here, to treat it, just like these other soldiers.”

Crowley frowned. Hell-spawn wasn’t far off, not at all. But how...he went rigid. His eyes! The glasses were gone; they must have seen his eyes. Thrashing on the gurney, he tried to snap the ropes that held him down. Hands pressed against him, pushing him down. Crowley struggled for a few moments, but his strength had vanished. 

“See!” the first voice said. “The thing is dangerous; the colonists must have made some kind of deal to have it fight for them.”

Laughter bubbled on Crowley’s lips. “Just let me go,” he coughed. “I’m not a revolutionary- I’m not one of you.”

He didn’t register the slap across his face until the bandage tore, falling away. He expected the light to be overwhelming. There wasn’t any. Only a yawning nothingness. “W- what did you do to me?” He cringed at the naked panic in his voice.

The second voice responded. “I did what I could, but there were shards buried deep in your eyes. I’m afraid your vision won’t return.”

“No. You lying-”

The hand smacked him harder, throwing him back against the gurney. Crowley bared his fangs. He hissed like the snake he was, lunging as far forward as the restraints allowed.

“Monster!” 

He was ripped from the gurney, the ropes snapping off him painfully. They dragged him outside; for a few moments he felt the sun on his face. Then they thrust him up a gangway, onto a wooden surface that rocked beneath his feet. Iron manacles were fitted around his ankles. He was marched deeper into the ship, where voices muttered. They kept moving until the voices disappeared.

“You’ll stay here, devil, until you learn to be better mannered.” They snapped shackles over his wrists, stringing his arms up so he hung awkwardly, arms wrenched above his head. 

He bit his lip through the pain. Between his arms and eyes everything was a haze. He didn’t hear the cell slam shut as the soldiers left. His head lolled on his chest, blood pooling from his wounds to the floor. Crowley hoped the pain would dull with time. It didn’t. If anything it got worse, until all he could feel was the painful wrenching at his arms, the agony of his eyes, and a bullet hole he hadn’t known he had until it started bleeding afresh.

Hours (days? months?) later his jailer came, spooning a handful of water into his mouth. Crowley lapped at it like he’d never tasted anything as good. But when he was offered a morsel to eat, he turned his head away. The thought of food was enough to set his stomach roiling, even in his state. The jailer wrenched his jaw open and forced it down. He didn’t seem to mind Crowley’s fangs, or the way the demon cried out as he was forced to swallow. After the jailer left he threw everything up, even the water. He’d decided he was going to die here. He’d spent lifetimes keeping himself alive, and the last four years more than ever before. It didn’t matter anymore. They’d taken his powers, his wings, even his sight. He had nothing left. Crowley shut his ruined eyes, and waited.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m still having formatting issues, but after going in and manually adding the code for paragraph breaks I have that and some italics! The last sentence is also supposed to be italicized by the way, I can’t figure out how to fix it lol.

Something was pulling at his throat, tugging cool metal taunt against him. “Get off,” he mumbled. “Can’t you see I’m trying to die?”

“That’s a fine chain you’ve got there,” said the jailer. “Much too fine for a gutter-rat like you. I say it’s mine now.” He yanked at the locket again, and Crowley gasped, coughing.

A locket. Someone had given it to him, someone close. It was all lost in the haze. He coughed, his throat tight. What was he? Who was he? He couldn’t remember. Crowley gasped for breath, fear like a hot knife stabbing into his heart. He thought he might burst with it. A single word cut through, clear as crystal. _Aziraphale._

____

____

Crowley laughed; a weak, hoarse sound. _Aziraphale. _The locket had been a gift. He hadn’t stolen it: it belonged to him, it was his. He scrabbled at the wall, pushing himself up against it, and kicked as far as the manacles would allow. He connected with something soft, heard the jailer cry out. The pressure on his throat disappeared, the cell door swinging shut with a clang. Good.__

____

____

He collapsed, his strength vanishing as well. He hung there, hovering between life and whatever came after, for time immeasurable. When they came for him he was too weak to lift his head. 

“Bloody hell,” a man said, whistling. 

“It’s been five days. Eric refused to come feed ‘em, said he fought like the Devil himself.” 

“Poppycock,” another snorted. “This one here couldn’t fight a leaf. Eric just doesn’t have balls.” 

They all laughed at that.

The shackles came loose, and Crowley fell forward into the hay. He was hauled up, half-carried to a cot. 

“What’s this?” asked a sharp voice. “Who’s this- what’ve you done to him?”

“Shut up you,” a soldier snarled. “Do what you can.”

Crowley shivered. He was cold, but the wounds on his eyes and the bullet hole burned. _Infection _, he thought, somehow lucid. Breath scraped his lungs, and he coughed again, his whole body trembling. A hand pressed against his forehead.__

____

____

Someone tsked. “You were in the deep part, weren’t you?”

Crowley shuddered, tried to open his mouth, and coughed again. 

“No no don’t answer that,” the voice said. “Save your breath.” There was splashing, and then a damp cloth was lain on his head. “I don’t care what kind of monster they think you are, leaving you to die, untreated, in the darkness is a worse fate than anything you might have done to them.” 

“Daniel,” the voice called. “Your stew. Now.”

A spoon found its way to Crowley’s lips, the broth slipping down his throat. It was cold. Crowley coughed again, shaking his head. “No. Don’t make me eat, please,” he begged feebly. 

The spoon withdrew. “You have to. I’m sorry lad, but you’ll die without it. You look like a ghost, a malnourished phantom.” 

Crowley turned his sightless eyes away. “I don’t care if I die,” He touched the locket, running his hand over the serpent pattern. He didn’t know what it meant anymore. _Aziraphale _. The doctor- Crowley decided his hands were too gentle to be anything but- clucked his tongue. “Don’t give up yet, you seem strong. I do have to warn you though, driving the infection out will be painful. And you still have lead inside. It’s poison.”__

____

____

Like the doctor said, it hurt. When he extracted the bullet, pulling it out of Crowley with a stick and his hands, and when the infection ravaged him. The doctor burned it away. It hurt, but Crowley kept all his limbs, so he counted himself lucky.

The doctor held his hair back when he was sick, which was often. The food was even more terrible on the prison ship then it had been on the road. The doctor prescribed a diet of soft fruit, and badgered the guards until they gave Crowley some dried apricots. “I said soft fruits,” he muttered, but Crowley didn’t care. He could suck them, and that was enough.

The other prisoners were suspicious of him, once h’d healed enough to limp out of his corner. They’d heard the guards whisper. They muttered that he was a monster, a devil. A demon. That last word seemed familiar. At night, he’d lay on his cot and whisper one thing, over and over. 

_Aziraphale _. What was it? A name? He asked the doctor once, why he couldn’t remember anything.__

____

____

The doctor was silent for a time. “Occasionally, I would get a soldier so scarred by war he’d forgotten everything, even his own name. These were the men who’d given up; they’re not alive, not dead. Just, there. A void. You, Crowley, are not a void. You will remember. You just need time.” 

Time. The one thing they had in spades. Crowley limped to the scuttle. Sometimes he could smell a salty breeze, or feel the sun. He leaned over it, inhaling. Right now all he could smell was sweat and damp wood. His hands tightened into fists. If he made it off this ship, he’d have the sunshine in his hair every day. If he made it off, he’d never set foot on a ship again.

A hand caught him on his way back, pushing him against the wall. “What are you?” they snarled.

Crowley turned toward their voice. “I don’t know,” he said. “What are you?” 

They backhanded him, so hard he stumbled and fell.

‘How dare you? You- you- creature!”

They stormed off, leaving Crowley with a busted lip and a cut under his eye. He had scars from his time as a soldier. His stay on the prison ship multiplied them. Sometimes the guards liked to grab him when they were bored, push him around until he couldn’t tell where they were coming from. Then they whipped him, catching his back, his face, his arms. He’d curl into a ball, tucking his head under his arms. They laughed. And laughed. 

The doctor would patch him up afterward, grumbling. “Those are the real monsters,” he said, wiping the blood from Crowley’s back. His clothes hung in tatters. This time they’d ripped his shirt off and tossed it away somewhere, where he couldn’t find it.

“Look at this, they’ve opened up your old scars,” the doctor complained. “How do they expect me to keep you all alive if they’re going to behave like animals?” 

Crowley winced as the doctor dabbed at his skin. “They don’t,” he rasped. “Want us alive. They don’t care. W- you’re not even human to them.”

“My lad, you’re just as human as the rest of us. You have strange eyes, but your heart is good. I can tell. And whoever Aziraphale was, they could tell too.”

Crowley sucked in a breath. Could they? See him as human? That didn’t sound right. He wasn’t, couldn’t be. They told him he was a monster. They said he had no right to live at all. He’d been told that before, though he couldn’t recall by whom.

“I’m so tired,” he said eventually, flinging his head back against the cot. “Why won’t you let me die?” he demanded again. “I want to sleep. Let me sleep.” Hot tears streamed down his cheeks, leaking out of the corners of his eyes. It hurt like- he wasn’t sure what. 

Something was thrust into his hand. The locket. It was open. With a rush of anger, Crowley hissed. “Shut it! This shouldn't be open.” Never. It held something too precious.

“I can’t see what’s inside. I don’t think you know what it holds anymore, do you?” 

Crowley fumbled with the latch, trying to close it; instead he brushed something. His hands shook as he felt for it, withdrawing two soft things, so light he barely felt them in his palm. Feathers. “Doctor. What color are they?” He held his breath; he knew the answer, but he needed to hear it from someone else. He needed to be sure. 

“They’re white, Crowley. A purer white than swan feathers. Do you know what they are?”

Crowley shut his eyes, let out his breath. “I think so,” he said. “But I can’t tell you.” 

_Aziraphale. Angel. _His angel. Crowley clutched the feathers, and sobbed. He was so far away. _Forgive me.___

__

__


	6. Chapter 6

The war was over. They’d come onto the ship and said everyone was free, to go where they pleased. Crowley helped the doctor with the prisoners too weak to stand, getting them all off the ship. It was odd to stand with his feet on solid ground, especially without his eyes. Swaying, he kept a grip on the staff he’d been given, clutching it until the wave of dizziness went away. He shook the feeling off. This was a good day; the fighting was over, the British were returning to their land, and there was wind in his hair. He raised his face to the sun, soaking in the warmth. The air was clean and fresh, like after a rainshower. 

“It’s over. I can’t believe it,” he said to the doctor, smiling. The expression cramped his muscles, long unused.

There was no reply, not even the stirring of air. Crowley frowned. “Doctor?” He waited a moment, then reached out, feeling for the man. But it was as if he’d vanished. 

Crowley made sure the sick were tended to before hobbling off, tapping at the ground with his staff.

“Wait, halt,” someone said beside him. One of the revolutionaries- though he’d heard they were going to call their new country “the United States of America” (much too long if you asked him), so American might’ve been a better word. Crowley let himself be tugged to a stop.

“You can’t see, can you?” the American asked.

Crowley touched the cloth over his face and shook his head. What did this man want from him? He was free to go now, and he wouldn’t stay here a moment longer than necessary. 

“Do you have any family to go back to?”

Crowley shook his head.

“Any friends to look after you?”

Crowley hesitated. “...no.”

“So your plan is to just bugger off somewhere.” The man was tapping his foot, a sharp loud sound.

“Yeah, and what’s it to you?” Crowley hissed.

“You need help. If you want passage, to anywhere at all, I can make sure you get it.”

Crowley blinked. The motion hurt. “You...want to offer me...passage? To anywhere. But- I’m nobody.”

The man laughed. “Everyone is somebody; I thought I was nobody too, but look at me now.”

“I can’t,” Crowley reminded him. 

He imagined the man lifting an eyebrow. “You’re a right cheeky one you are. Here, take this.”

Crowley’s hands closed over a piece of paper, embossed with a seal. “What do I-”

“Just hand it to any captain and tell them Washington gave it to you personally.”

Crowley startled like an electric shock had gone through him. Washington! Here?

“I can’t say that,” he protested. “They’ll laugh and send me away!” Or worse. 

“They won’t. I promise, on my honor as a general.”

It was really him. Crowley knelt in an awkward motion, cursing his eyes. 

Hands tugged him up. “None of that please, I’m not a king, just a man.”

There was something at the back of Crowley’s mind, something about the general. His reason for joining the revolution? No, he remembered that. He’d been on the streets, they’d offered him a second chance. This was from before; before his memories began. 

“Well, good day to you, and good luck,” said Washington. 

“T- to you as well General.” Crowley was left standing alone, holding the seal of the commander of the American forces. He ran a finger over it. He could truly go anywhere now. As far away as he pleased; he could go and never look back, and no one would protest. Yet...Aziraphale. Somehow, it felt like the angel was waiting for him. Impossible. Whatever he was, the idea of an angel who missed him, who wanted him to come back, was ridiculous. “I’m unloveable, remember?”

He traced the serpent pattern on the locket, thinking of the feathers nestled inside. It'd been a gift from the angel. Why would Aziraphale have given it to him unless he was important to the angel too? “I can’t,” he told himself. “I don’t know where to go.” He hobbled back to the docks anyway, the paper tucked inside his shirt. 

Sailors cried out, passing boxes, unloading shipments. Crowley followed the nearest voice until his staff bumped against a foot. 

“Sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for passage.”

“Passage you say?” the sailor snorted. “Look at this one, like he’s been dragged through hell.”

“I was a soldier,” Crowley said quietly. 

The sailors stopped laughing. “Where do you want passage to?”

Crowley shrugged. “Anywhere. As long as I’m not here I’ll be happy.”

They muttered amongst themselves, then the sailor spoke again. “You’ll have to talk to the captain.”

The captain was a loud, jovial man with a lusty laugh. When Crowley showed him the paper he clapped Crowley on the back, hard enough he almost dropped his staff.

“The seal of the great general himself.” He whistled. “Worth your weight in gold, I’m sure.”

Crowley scratched his neck. “You’ll take me then?”

“Of course, lad! Though I’m afraid you won’t much like where we’re going.” 

A pit formed in his stomach, his mouth going dry. “Why not?”

“We’re heading back to England. Have some soldiers to drop off, and rum.”

Crowley perked at the last bit. “Rum?”

“Lots of the stuff.” He clapped Crowley on the back again. “I’ll give you a cabin out of the way of the Redcoats, how about that?”

“That’s fine. Wonderful,” It took everything not to spit the last word in the captain’s face. It wasn’t the captain’s fault Crowley was about to face his two worst fears. 

He spent most of the voyage below in his cabin, with several barrels of alcohol. They hadn’t precisely given him the barrels, but he considered the rum his due reward after several years as a prisoner of war. He sloshed some rum into a glass, gulped it down, and poured another. By the time he’d worked through several bottle’s worth his thoughts had dissipated into a pleasant hum. He couldn’t feel his legs except for a slight tingling that told him they were still attached, and even if he’d had his vision he wouldn’t have been able to see a bloody thing. 

“Thissss is fine,” he slurred. He tried to pour more rum, which hit his feet instead of the glass, not that he noticed. “Cheers.” He raised his glass to the emptiness beside him- to the shadow of his memory -and tossed the phantom contents down. Britain. The belly of the beast; if he’d been thinking clearly, he’d have wondered why it felt...right. As if someone truly waited for him there. But he wasn’t thinking, except about how groggy(1) he could get.

Somehow he stumbled on deck, swaying like the wind might blow him over. He squinted at nothing. Swinging at the nearest person, he jabbed a finger into their chest. “Right, ‘ere’sss the deal,” he said. “I’m going ta ssstay in my cabin, and you lot’ll pisss off, ‘right?”

“Blimey, he’s dead drunk.” Someone chortled.

“Get him off deck,” another said. 

Hands grabbed him. “Rude,” Crowley hissed. “Leggo, lobcock(2).”

“Tatterdemallion(3),” they threw back. 

Crowley stopped resisting long enough to grin. “Touche.” 

They deposited him in his cabin, locking him in for the night. When he woke he was lying on the floor, with a pounding head and a hole in his memories. This happened frequently. By the time they reached England, he’d run out of rum and the sailors had run out of patience. He was put on the streets without as much as a farewell. It wasn’t the worst thing to happen to him, but he didn’t know his destination, so it would’ve been nice if they’d let him stick around for a while. No one wanted a cripple though; when he tried to get a job people laughed in his face, and when he tried to steal they whipped him. A week later he found himself on a street corner, huddled in a ragged blanket with a begging bowl.

He was pathetic enough that some souls gave coins, the sound of clanging metal like sweet music. Once he gathered a few fistfuls he crawled to the nearest tavern, ordering whatever watered-down swill was cheapest. It did the trick. On the rare occasion he wasn’t drunk, the thoughts would come, seeping into his mind, poisoning him. So he surrendered to a different kind of poison, until he couldn’t even remember the name that sent him here. He passed two years this way. One day when he was deep in his cups someone sat down beside him. Crowley twitched. He sniffed the air; whoever they were, they smelled wrong. Like smoke and brimstone. Like- 

“Crooowley,” they said, drawing out the ‘o’. “Where the heaven have you been?”

Crowley put down his glass. “How- how do you know my name?” Something told him he should be afraid. He shook it off. 

“Don’t play dumb with me you idiot,” they sneered. “You’ve been gone too long. See, Head Office didn’t mean for you to up and disappear for nine years.”

“Bugger off,” Crowley muttered. “You’ve got the wrong bloke; I’m just a drunk.”

“I can smell it on your breath.” They sounded disgusted. “Listen, you know I don’t like you, not at all. But even a demon shouldn’t be in a place like this. Sober up, make your report to Below, and get back to work. Humans won’t tempt themselves.”

_Actually, they do_ , Crowley wanted to say, though he didn’t know where the thought came from. “I’m not a demon, I’m a freak,” he said instead. “And I can’t just-” he waved a hand about “-get sober.” 

The being growled deep in their throat, an unnatural animal-like sound. They grabbed Crowley, pulling him in close. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but I don’t like it. Crowley. You’re a _demon_ , part of the forces of Hell. _You_ are not human, you’re not whatever this is. Now snap out of it, bastard!” They flung him away. 

His head struck the bar as he fell. He’d fallen so much. The first time he Fell, and all the subsequent times put together hadn’t hurt as much as that. His eyes widened. He’d Fallen, he remembered it. Flashes- _a Garden, the Garden- a white wing shielding him from the rain; a blue-eyed man smiling: Can I tempt you to some oysters?; Noah’s arc, the same man beside him; Egypt, Golgotha, Camelot, London- and always a man with blue eyes and a gentle smile, his hands folded primly. Aziraphale._

Crowley clutched his head, mind buried under almost six thousand years worth of memories. 

“Well?” the other demon said. 

Crowley struggled to his feet with a throbbing migraine; he was still defenseless, blind. All that’d returned to him was his past. “Hassstur,” he hissed, baring his fangs. “I suppose I should thank you, but that wouldn’t be very demonic of me, now would it?” He flexed his fingers. “Been awhile. Any reason I shouldn’t blast you back down the hole you crawled out of?” 

Hastur laughed, and Crowley wrestled away the desire to shudder. “You stink of humanity. Better get the smell off before you report back.” Crowley felt his presence melt into the shadows, or maybe the ground. 

Crowley sagged. “Thank G- Sa- Somebody.” He could feel the eyes of the townsfolk on him, that and their hostility. Draining his glass, he grabbed his staff and left. He didn’t come back.

A blind man on the road had to depend on the kindness of others. There wasn’t a lot of that, but they had enough pity to keep him pointed toward London. It was hard to find food, harder to remember he needed it. He was used to making due on very little though. He ate enough to keep his corporation stumbling onward, slept as little as he could, and kept a hand on the locket. He’d been gone too long. _Are you listening? I’m coming back. Wait for me._

Four months later- or as close as he could mark it - he almost stepped into a pile of manure. A door banged open, a woman’s voice screaming curses at him. Crowley retreated. _Excuse me ma’am, could you tell me where we are?_ was what he meant to stay. Instead he managed one word in a voice cracked by disuse. “Where?”

“Where? My bloody garden, that’s where!”

He swung toward her, the movement serpentine. “Where?”

“L- London. England.”

His face split into a smile. Finally. He’d have kissed the woman, but by now the door had slammed shut behind her. She was probably warding herself against the evil eye. 

He allowed a few moments of happiness before he remembered there was a whole city before him, and his face fell. He knew where Zira lived ten years ago, but the angel might have changed addresses by now. Or been sent on a heavenly mission, or forced to move elsewhere. His grip on the staff tightened. There was nothing for it- he’d have to trust himself. Crowley walked the rest of the day and into the night. Three carriages almost ran him over, a platoon of soldiers forced him off private property, and he narrowly avoided the contents of at least one chamber pot. 

He wandered until he couldn’t feel his legs for how tired he was, and his stomach cried out for want of food. No, he couldn’t stop. He had to keep going, had to keep searching. Crowley fell to his knees. Stabbing the staff into the ground, he dragged himself forward. If he had to crawl there he would. He’d done it before. He stabbed at the ground again, this time hitting cobblestone. The staff slipped from his hands, bouncing away. Crowley reached for it, but he felt so heavy, his eyelids too. Pain coursed through his arms, and he dropped his head onto them. His eyes fluttered shut. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Groggy: according to the Atlantic, this is an actual expression used in the seventeen hundreds that means literally, "having had too much grog, the sailor's drink of rum and water". So, drunk.
> 
> 2\. This one is self-explanatory. It also means "A dull inanimate fellow."
> 
> 3\. "A ragged fellow, whose clothes hang all in tatters." I got this one and the one above from Mentalfloss.
> 
> Okay, that's all for now! Just one more chapter to go; I should have it up tomorrow. Thank you for coming this far!


	7. Chapter 7

Aziraphale woke up. He hadn’t been asleep, he rarely slept at all, but he’d been so deep in his book he hadn’t stirred for three days. Sometimes he went weeks without leaving the confines of the apartment. It had gotten worse, ever since….he frowned. “No, it won’t due to dwell on that,” he said aloud to the empty room. He stood, placing the book on a table, and went off to drown his loneliness in tea. Ten years. Ten years since Crowley went off on his mission. He’d been gone that long before, sometimes much longer, but there was something different this time. Aziraphale couldn’t sense him. Not for the last nine and a half years. At first he’d panicked, had searched through all of his tomes, combed them for any spell he could use to bring the demon back. Nothing worked. Over the long years he’d convinced himself that Crowley was fine. The demon knew how to take care of himself; this mission was just taking a little longer than he’d predicted it would. Nothing to be worried about. The thought rang hollow in Zira’s heart. 

Slowly, he’d begun to consider the possibility that Crowley wouldn’t return. The kettle whined, and he shook himself, turning to it. Instead his feet carried him to a little alcove. Black feathers and a pair of dark spectacles sat inside it. Zira passed a hand over his face, blinking back the tears that sprang to his eyes. “Oh, Crowley. I miss you.” Clasping his hands, he sent a prayer up. If You have any mercy, bring him home. Please. Then he went to tend to the kettle.

Cradling a mug, he breathed in the warm smell, letting it spread through him. The calm was shattered as soon as he reached into his cookie tin. “Oh, bugger!” he swore, glaring at its empty bottom. Muttering, he pulled on his coat and yanked open the door. He noticed two things. The door needed oiling, and a crumpled figure lay slumped on his doorstep.

Zira bent to look closer. The creature was filthy, covered in dirt and dust, their thin limbs clothed in tattered rags. Long hair was struin over their back and in front of their eyes. The creature had no shoes; dried blood caked their feet. Old scars, just visible under the dirt, crossed their limbs and jaw. Gently, Aziraphale pushed the hair off their face. A rag was tied over the eyes, but scars peeked from beneath it. They groaned, stirring, and the rag slipped down. 

The angel had to bite back a gasp. Their face was pockmarked with jagged lines and spots. Angry red scars raked across their eyes, which were clouded, milky. But familiar. Steeling himself, Zira looked again, not letting himself turn away. Beneath the scars their eyes were yellow and slit-pupiled like a cat. Or a snake.   
A thousand emotions assailed him all at once, struggling to be heard. His throat closed, and he forgot how to breathe. No. No, it couldn’t be. After an immeasurable amount of time he managed to croak out a word. “...Crowley?”

The demon- Zira could feel it now, faint demonic energy pulsing from him -smiled, turning his face toward Zira’s voice. “Hey angel,” he whispered.   
He was here, no more than a hair’s breadth from Aziraphale, wounded and broken but alive. The angel felt tears run down his face, a sob building in his throat; he crushed Crowley to his chest, hugging him as tightly as he dared. “You’re not dead,” he said, sniffling. 

Crowley leaned against his shoulder. “And leave you all alone here? Never.” 

If Crowley could still have cried, he would have. He wrapped his arms around the angel, who shook like a leaf, crying. Tears slashed onto Crowley’s shoulders.  
“I’m- so sorry,” Zira choked out between sobs. “I stopped looking- I left you-”

“Shhh, angel, no.” Crowley rubbed Aziraphale’s back soothingly. A part of him wanted to laugh; after everything that had happened to him, he was the one comforting the angel. It felt surreal. “It’s not your fault,” he said, the words scraping his throat. “It’s not.”

He pulled away, reached out to touch Zira’s face. “May I…?”

The angel stilled. “Yes.” He sounded uncertain.

Crowley brushed his hands over the angel’s jaw, feeling the shape of it. He ran hands along Aziraphale’s cheeks, pressing them against his cheekbones. He felt his nose, then Aziraphale’s eyes, his hands coming away damp. He touched his forehead, his ears. Then he wound his hands in the angel’s hair, as soft as he remembered. “I’m not dreaming,” he murmured. He’d dreamed about this so many times, and woken up each morning empty. He didn’t sleep as often anymore. The dreams hurt too much. 

Zira tried to laugh. “No my dear, you’re not. I’m real.” The angel made a noise then, and Crowley felt something warm settle over him. “It’s dreadfully cold! Let’s get you inside dear, I was just putting tea on…”

Crowley was bundled to his feet and marched through a door, which sprang shut behind him. Zira pushed him onto a couch, fussing about him. He tucked a blanket over the demon and a pillow under his head, thrusting a mug into his hands. “Angel, wait. I’ll get dirt on everything,” he protested. 

Aziraphale tutted. “If you do I’ll just clean it up. You’re more important.”

Crowley felt heat color his cheeks. “Oh,” he said. He sipped at the tea carefully, flinching as it scalded his tongue. 

“Are you alright?” said an anxious voice in his ear. 

Crowley jumped, the tea sloshing out of the mug. Zira miracled it away before it could splash him. 

“Don’t do that. I can’t see you, remember?” Crowley snapped. He touched his tongue, wincing. 

“I-” Aziraphale cut himself off. Instead he placed a hand on Crowley’s shoulder, healing him. “Sorry.” 

He fell silent, but Crowley could feel him staring, imagining his worried eyes, the way he always chewed his lip. “What?”

There was a clink as Aziraphale set something down. “Crowley…” He hesitated. “Do you...not have your powers?”

Crowley hugged his arms around himself, and shook his head. 

The angel drew a sharp intake of breath. “Oh, my dear boy.” Crowley was gathered again in the angel’s arms, pulled against Aziraphale’s body, soft like a cloud. And warm. Warmer than anything he’d felt in ten years. Crowley buried his head on Zira’s shoulder, clutching him close.

He slept through the night, then slept on for five more. Aziraphale spent those days puttering about his apartment, trying to distract himself with books and research. He couldn’t. Instead he cleaned out the little alcove, polishing the spectacles and setting them on his nightstand, besides the bed. Crowley would find them when he woke. As for the feathers...Zira wasn’t sure what to do with them. He didn’t want the demon to know he’d kept them- Crowley would accuse him of being a sentimental old fool. He’d laugh. No, better not to give them back, not yet. Besides, Zira didn’t know if he’d ever see those beautiful black wings again.

He spent most of his time in the bedroom, pretending at reading. Really he was watching the slow rise and fall of the demon’s chest, and the way his hair- washed clean -spread in rivulets over the pillow. Crowley had nearly cried when Zira helped him bathe and change into new clothes. Aziraphale never wanted to see him like that again, but it was a selfish thought. Crowley needed him; he needed a shoulder to cry on, an ear to listen to him. Zira sighed, rubbing his forehead. It would be painful for both of them, the healing. He wasn’t an angel for nothing though. 

Zira plumped Crowley’s pillow, softly so as not to wake him. He was returning to his book when a glimmering around the demon’s throat caught his eye. Zira paused. Crowley had taken the necklace off before bathing and hidden it; he must have put it back on before going to sleep. Aziraphale leaned in close enough to look. It was a silver locket, engraved with a twisting serpent on its surface.

His heart leapt into his throat. He’d given that to Crowley years ago, as a thank you for a favor he couldn’t recall anymore. Crowley had complained hotly, calling it trite, but taken the gift anyway. He’d never told Zira what he placed inside.

Before Aziraphale could stop himself his hand thumbed the catch open, and he couldn't resist the urge to look deeper. With a start he stumbled away, back to the chair. His heart beat so hard he thought it might burst from his ribcage. 

“Crowley,” he whispered. _And you say I’m the sentimental one._ He returned to the bed, tucking the two black feathers beside the white ones. Still bent over the sleeping demon, he felt tears leak out, splashing Crowley’s face. Muttering an apology Zira brushed them away, but a torrent pressed against his eyes, and in seconds a flood ran down his cheeks. 

“I’m so sorry!” Aziraphale said, as the demon frowned in his sleep.

“Ngk,” Crowley hissed. Suddenly he was flailing, his limbs askew and his eyes flung open. Tears had splashed into them. Water poured down his face, like he was crying too- but that wasn’t right; Crowley hadn’t shed a tear since he’d returned, Aziraphale was sure he couldn’t cry at all. And yet-

The demon howled, clawing at his face. 

“No no, that’s enough of that!” Zira grabbed his wrists, pinning him as still as he could, though the demon wriggled like a snake. 

“It hurts- let me go, angel let me go,” Crowley begged. 

“Not ever! Never again!” He held the demon close until Crowley stilled, exhausted. 

“Angel?” 

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, who had his head turned toward him.

“Angel,” he said again, his voice hushed. “You look like hell.”

Zira’s first feeling was indignation- he’d been holding himself together well enough, all things considered. His next was doused under shock. Look? He pulled Crowley’s head toward him, ignoring the demon’s protest. Two eyes blinked at him. Eyes as yellow as the sun, as golden as a molten pool. 

“You- you-”

Those eyes welled with tears of their own, and angel and demon both sobbed all over again.

“Holy water,” Crowley said after they’d cried themselves out. “ But it shouldn’t have healed me, if anything it should’ve hurt more.”

Aziraphale smiled a watery smile. “My dear, it wasn’t holy water. I think it was my grace, pouring out of me.” That, or the Almighty Herself had blessed him with Her own miracle. She’d heard his prayers afterall. _Thank you._

The demon threw back his head and laughed. There was pure joy in the sound, and a happiness Zira had never felt from him before. Crowley leaned against Aziraphale’s arm, curling his hand into the angel’s under the covers. “Thank you,” he said, echoing Zira’s thoughts. “For everything.” 

They stayed like that an hour or more, until Crowley tugged the angel to his feet, pulling him out into the sunshine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everyone who's been reading this, I can't believe people want to read the trash I concoct when inspiration hits me like the truck it is (lol). Really, this story ran me over, I don't usually have ideas for fan fiction. Special thanks (also again) to IneffableToreshi. Without them I wouldn't have ever posted this (if you haven't already read it I highly recommend their story _In Silence Our Secrets Lie_ , it's gorgeous). I hope you all enjoyed this!!


End file.
